THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  MENAGE  A  TROIS 
ACROSS  THE  STYX 

cAND  OTHERj 

ADVENTURES  IN  VERSE 


LT.  COL.  SIR  FRANK  POPHAM  YOUNG 

K.  B.  E.,  C.  I.  E. 


A.   M.   ROBERTSON 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1922 
By  lit.  Col.  Sir  Frank  Popham  Young 


Made  by  Sunset  Press 


CONTENTS 

1.  Kismet 

2.  In  the  Mist. 

3.  California  or  Cathay 

4.  Vox  Feminae  Vox  Dei 

5.  Kl  and  K2 

6.  Intercessional. 

7.  A  Cup  of  Cold  Water 

8.  Noblesse  Oblige 

9.  Creeds,  Constellations,  and  Creeping  Things 
10.  A  Menage  a  Trois  Across  the  Styx 


611129 

UBRAKT 


TO  THE  LADY 

WHO  HAS  PLACED  HER  HAND  IN  MINE 

COME  WEAL  OR  WOE 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  DEDICATE 

F.  P.  Y. 


'KISMET" 

HAT  which  is  built  by  mortal  hands 

Time  lays  to  waste, 
But  'tis  not  so  with  those  mysterious 

commands, 

Which  on  man's  forehead  traced, 
Link  life  with  life  by  interwoven  strands 
Of  Destiny.   These  cannot  be  effaced. 


"IN  THE  MIST" 

OVE  has  thundered,  Venus  beckoned, 
Thor  and  Odin  held  their  sway; 
(See  the  light  upon  the  mountain 

And  the  ripple  on  the  sea!) 
Brahma  counselled,  Shiva  threatened; 

Christ  has  died. 
(Hear  the  rustle  on  the  mountain 
And  the  murmur  of  the  sea  /) 

Sternly  preached  Mahommed; 

Gently  smiling,  practised  Buddha.   Yet  alway 
Human  steps  have  wandered, 

Human  hearts  have  cried 
"What  is  Truth?    But  lift  the  curtain, 
Making  Love  more  pure,  and  Faith  more  certain." 
(The  light  has  died  upon  the  mountain — 

Mists  enshroud  the  sea). 


[2] 


RESTED  in  the  Shalimar  where,  tier  on  tier, 
The  jewelled  garden  nestles  'neath  th'  eternal 

hills, 
And  broods  above  the  sleeping  surface  of  the 

lake. 

The  great  "chenar"  trees  whispered  "It  was  here 
Jehangir  held  his  court,"  and  all  the  little  rills 
Told  of  a  storied  Past.    I  pondered  only  half  awake; 

Pictured  the  smooth  and  scheming  courtiers,  silken 

clad, 

When  Islam  with  a  fierce,  intense,  and  vivid  sweep 
Led,  dominated,  ruled,  and  then  declined. 
By  sloth  and  luxury  beguiled,  and  power-mad, 
Akbar's  great  Empire-fortress  tottered  till  its  keep, 
Sapped  by  fanatic  hate,  was  slowly  undermined. 

And  then  the  jangled  music  of  soft  camel  bells 
Announced  a  "Kafila"  beyond  the  carven  gate. 
Austere  and  supercilious,  gaunt,  reluctant,  slow, 
From  Samarkand,  Bokhara — weaving  magic  spells — 
These  central  Asian  genii  discharged  their  freight, 
Into  the  living  present,  stark  Romance  of  long  ago. 

I  watched  the  bearded,  hawk-nosed  trader  from  afar, 
Engirt  with  pistols,  hung  about  with  keen  edged 

knives, 

And  judged  his  treasure  to  be  something  worth, 
Perchance 

He  carried  priceless  jewels — some  great,  shining  star 
Of  Asia !   Or  perchance  this  care  betokened  wives 
Suspect  of  light  and  loose — and  dangerous — dalliance. 

NOTE:  Kafila — a  train  of  camels. 

[3] 


He  made  ablutions.   Then  with  fervent,  supple  grace 
Salaamed  to  Allah,  faced  the  setting  sun  in  prayer. 
A  half  raised  "burka,"  which  had  draped  the  form 
Of  one  who,  patient,  sat  behind,  revealed  a  face 
Which  well  might  turn  an  Emperor  from  the  fretting 

care 
Of  march  and  countermarch,  of  combat,  siege,  and 

storm. 

Long  curving  lashes  swept  the  olive  tinted  cheek 
Stained  with  a  tea-rose  flush.    Then  slowly 

dropped  the  veil. 

The  little  figure  softly  lit  upon  the  ground, 
To  outward  seeming  humble,  acquiescent,  meek, 
Followed  the  age  old  path  of  servitude  behind  the 

male, 
Rebel  at  heart — her  eyes  had  told  it — gagged  and 

bound. 

Long  years  have  passed,  and  more  than  half  the 

circled  world 

Divides  me  from  that  terraced  garden  of  delight. 
Softened  by  night  the  rough  Pacific  hills  enfold. 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  the  bay  the  sails  are  furled. 
The  water  plashes  and  low  voices  of  the  night 
Bring  back  to  me  that  scene,  the  tale  that  half  was 

told. 

The  wizardry  of  art  has  wrought  with  loving  skill, 
Has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  Orient ;  and  here 
Curved  arches,  cunning  lines  of  building,  terraced 

slopes, 

The  sense  of  quiet  water,  and  the  brooding  hill, 
The  richly  perfumed  air — all  waft  me  to  Kashmir, 
And  tell  a  thousand  tales  of  bygone  fears  and  hopes. 

[4] 


Once  more  I  see  that  stealing  glance  with  eyes  abrim, 
The  little  henna-tinted  feet,  the  blush,  the  blanch 

of  fear, 

As  gleaming  in  the  folds  of  his  silk  "kamarband" 
Sharp  steel  forbade  all  speech  with  any  man  but  him, 
(Owner  of  lips  unsmiling,  Lord  of  a  tremulous  tear) 
Who  brought  his  wares  to  India  from  distant 

Samarkand. 

Written  in  the  garden  of  the  Samarkand  Hotel, 
Santa  Barbara,  Calif.,  February  28,  1921. 


[5] 


VOX  FEMINAE  VOX  DEI 

INSCRIBED  TO . 

ARELESSLY  I  trod  and  recked  not  that 

my  feet 

Oft  injured  little  peeping  things  of  life. 
The  frond  unfolding,  and  the  shyly  sweet 
Florescence  of  green  leaf  and  yellow  bud. 
Born  in  a  world  of  strife, 
Small  things  essayed  their  wings, 
Or  crept,  across  my  path. 
Those  little  animate  things 

I  crushed  unheeding.  Careless  hands  destroyed  them. 
Careless  footsteps  spilled  their  innocent  blood. 
The  righteous  wrath 
Of  God  made  me  more  blind. 
The  timid  questionings  of  some  untutored  mind, 
The  gropings  of  a  human  soul, 

The  silent  plea  for  sympathy — all  these  sacred  claims 
I  passed  unheeding.    Like  the  sightless  mole 
I  burrowed,  thinking  all  the  while  that  selfish  aims 
Carried  me  upwards.    I  had  hurt  and  bruised 
Frail  things  and  tender,  newly  born. 
For  worse  than  open  scorn 
Is  chill  indifference.   I  had  thus  abused 
The  trust  imposed  in  me,  but  gaily  went 
Along  the  open  road,  blind  to  the  narrow  trails 
Which  lead  through  brambles  to  the  dazzling  height. 
I  had  been  sent 

To  do  God's  work.  The  man  who  fails 
Not  in  his  weakness,  but  because  the  light 
Is  turned  from  in  a  selfish  pride 
Had  better  died 
Before,  with  calloused  soul,  he  learns 


[6] 


To  hold  that  he  is  justified 

When  he  has  failed  to  glimpse  the  Love, 

All  else  above, 

For  which  the  whole  of  Nature  aching  ever  yearns. 

****** 

And  so,  in  truth,  with  eyes  I  thought  uplifted, 
My  steps  were  leading  to  a  dark  and  ice-cold  Hell. 
I  had  believed  I  marched  and  conquered.    I  had 

merely  drifted. 

Then  God  compassioned  with  me ;  and  I  met, 
And  meeting  loved — Estelle ! 


[7] 


K  1.  AND  K  2. 

The  fourth  highest  mountain  peak  in  the  world  has  been  named  by  carto- 
graphers "K.  2." 

'HALLENGING  the  giant  Everest 

For  world  supremacy,  it  soars 

Lifting  its  snow  clad  crest 

Near  thirty  thousand  feet  into  the  azure 
of  an  Eastern  sky, 
Stands  sentinel  above  the  rugged  tableland  of  far 

Thibet, 

Whilst  from  its  molten  sides  it  pours 
Great  streams  of  water  into  the  teeming  plains 
Where  myriad  voices  ever  raise  the  ceaseless  cry 
"Assuage  our  thirst,  enrich  our  fields,  so  we  forget 
The  pangs  of  hunger  and  the  pains 
Of  drought."   Through  the  long  years 
This  mighty  monarch  of  the  Himalayan  range 
Skyward  rears 

The  glittering  lancepoint  of  its  ice  bound  peak. 
Its  snow  draped  sides  untrod, 
Nor  chance,  nor  change 

Affect  its  solemn,  silent  intercourse  with  God. 
Remote,  mist-shrouded,  Science  had,  perforce, 

to  seek 
Amidst  the  tumbled  mass  of  chasm  and  cliff, 

ravine  and  towering  mountain  top 
Its  jealous  guarded  secret.  Located  after  many  years, 
Measured  and  charted,  there  appears 
The  stately  record  of  this  vast  outcrop 
Of  rock  primaeval.    No  grandiloquence 
Of  nomenclature  marks  its  consequence. 


[8] 


K.  2  is  all  the  name 

By  which  it  stands  identified 

This  far  off  mountain,  which  so  long  defied 

The  curious  interest  of  men.   Its  fame 

E'en  now  denied. 

****** 

July  the  twenty -second.    Here  I  sit 

Thinking  of  just  a  little  bit 

Of  femininity.  A  woman  child 

By  whose  kind  eyes  beguiled 

The  rusting  decades  slip  away, 

And  Youth  sings  sweetly  "Life  is  work  and  play." 

Vision  slips  backwards,  inwards;  and  I  muse — 

If  between  dominating  forces  one  could  choose 

That  which  should  lead  and  guide 

Would  one  abide 

By  all  that  mountain  seems  to  typify — 

(Quest,  domination,  struggle;  add  and  multiply) — 

In  the  harsh  battle  of  ambitious  aims 

Which  made  one  long  to  climb  and  conquer? 

What's  the  use 

Of  scaling  heights  if,  left  behind, 
In  the  cold  effort  to  improve  one's  mind 
The  tender  claims 
Of  laughing  lips 

Of  little,  rosy,  clinging  finger  tips 
Are  passed  and  there  remains, 
For  all  one's  pains, 
A  husk  without  a  core,  a  sapless  rind? 


[9] 


This  other  K 

Holds  a  more  potent  sceptre,  has  a  wider  sway. 

And  so  I  lay 

These  verses  at  her  feet 

On  this  her  natal  day. 

K.  2,  Go  too! 

I  have  no  wreath  for  you. 

This  is  K.  1.    Smile  with  those  bright  eyes,  Sweet! 

Will  you  not  kiss  me,  K? 

To  Kathleen  (Kay) 
On  her  sixteenth  birthday. 


INTERCESSIONS 


TO  BESSIE  McJ.  BARRET 

A  LADY  FROM  'OLE  KAINTUCK',  IN  WHOM  THE 

WRITER   HAS   BEEN   PRIVILEGED   TO   DISCERN 

THOSE   CHIVALROUS   QUALITIES  WITH  WHICH 

HE  HAS  ENDOWED  MOSES  HIGGINS, 

THESE  VERSES  ARE  INSCRIBED 

F.  P.Y 


INTERCESSIONAL 

N  the  little  room,  above  the  barn,  in  ole 
Kaintuck 

One  Moses  Higgins  breathed  his  last.    He'd 

"followed  'osses 
Most  'is  life."    These  new  machines  had  made  things 

hard, 

But  that  stout  heart  had  never  lost  its  pluck. 
If  old  Mo'  played  a  card 

And  lost,  you'ld  never  hear  a  whine  about  his  losses. 
I 'Id  have  you  know  that  this  old  Mo', 
Above  whose  lonely  grave  wild  grasses  blow, 
Deserved  as  much  that  greatest  epitaph, 
"A  gentil,  parfait  knight," 

As  any  doughty,  mediaeval  champion  of  the  fight. 
His  sword  a  reaping  hook, 
His  spear  a  staff, 
Nature  his  Book, 
He  played  the  game,  ploughed  a  straight  furrow, 

never  lied, 

Lived  cleanly,  loved  devoutly,  laid  him  down — and 
died. 

The  blue  eyes  glazed,  and  Moses  Higgins  looked 

upon  a  screen. 

"The  Moses  Higgins  record!"  called  a  voice. 
A  shining  figure — Mo'  saw  him  fold  his  wings — 
Announced  the  choice. 
I  guess  it's  me  they  mean, 
Thought  Moses.    "That's  the  Arch-Director, 

Gabriel.     'Hello,  Gabe',"  he  said. 


[15] 


"You've  got  me  goin'  round  in  rings." 

"Hold  on!"  said  Gabriel.    "We've  got  to  size  you 

up  a  bit 

To  see  if  you  pass  fit. 
You  know  you're  dead." 

"I  guess,"  said  Moses,  "they're  aint  much  to  show. 
Jus'  me  behind  the  'osses.    It's  a  pretty  team. 
The  grey  mare's  savin'  her  off  fore. 
There's  Lizzie  at  the  gate.    She  oughter  know 
That  I'm  out  lookin'  for  her.    It  do  seem 
As  if  she  reckerlected  I  was  kinder  sore 
The  time  she  beat  it  off  to  town 
With  that  young  drummer  chap  who  called  me 

clown. 
But,  bless  yer,  Liz,  I've  gotten  over  that  this  long 

ago. 
You  creep  in  here,  and  lie  all  cuddled  like  yer 

useter — so." 

"What's  this  yer  showin',  Gabe?    Why  that  aint 

me! 

I  guess  that's  Romeyo,  or  that  Hamlick  guy, 
Who  stuck  that  fat  chap,  hid  behind  the  curtain, 

with  his  sword. 
Gosh!   How  that  made  me  larf!    I'm  blessed  if  I 

can't  see 

Doug  Fairbanks  doin'  stunts — and  that  blue  eye 
I 'Id  know  a  mile  off — Mary  Pick — My  word ! 
You  don't  say  that  them  is  me  and  Liz 
Cuttin'  around,  and  doin'  all  that  funny  biz!" 


•     [16] 


"Why,  yes,  I'll  say  that  when  those  actor  chaps 
Was  showin'  how  you'ld  gotta  play  the  game, 
And  keep  yer  pecker  up,  and  peg  away,  and  tell 

the  truth 
And  trust  yer  girl, 
I  useter  feel 

That  I'd  no  cause  to  squeal 
Because  I  didn't  seem  to  make  no  headway.    I 

thought  p'raps 
It  weren't  no  shame, 

Me  bein'  what  that  drummer  called  uncouth 
(Yokel  was  right  enough,  but  when  he  named  me 

churl 

That  riz  me,  and  I  knocked  his  silly  tooth 
Into  his  windpipe) — I  thought  it  weren't  no  shame 
To  make  pretence  that  I  was  jus'  the  same 
As  them  bright  fellers.    I  useter  step  along 
(Me,  ole  Mo' — some  Romeyo !) 
Behind  the  'osses  with  a  kind  o'  song 
Singin'  inside  me.    What's  that  Gabe? 
You've  passed  me?    Reckon  you're  some  babe. 
I  go  behind  the  curtain  'long  o'  Liz? 
And  take  the  grey  mare  too?    I'll  say  that  is 
Worth  waitin'  for.    I'll  tell  ole  Pete 
That  he  must  keep  them  actor  chaps  a  seat, 
For  sure  they  helped  a  lot,  and  kep  things  clean 

and  sweet, 

When  life  was  kind  o'  dull  and  work  a  grind 
In  that  ole  Kaintuck  shanty  that  I've  left  behind." 


Written  in  connection  with  Actor's 
Benefit  Fund  Fete  at  Los  Angeles 


17] 


"A  CUP  OF  COLD  WATER" 

HE   Haberdasher's   Assistant   saluted   the 
clear  dawn, 

Scratching  the  while  with  unclean 

finger  nail 

A  festering  surface  on  his  thigh, 
With  a  yellow  fanged  and  offending  yawn, 
A  bleary  eye,  and  a  dismal  sigh, 
Half  snore,  half  wail. 


Through  the  green  avenue  of  trees, 

Along  the  shining  beach, 
They  gave  their  willing  horses  rein, 
And  the  look  zn  n^s  pleasant  tired  eyes  was  life  that  of 

a  war  worn  Moor  who  sees 

In  the  desert  a  haven  of  rest,  and  a  harvest  af  grain, 
At  last  within  his  reach. 


The  Haberdasher's  Assistant  coughed,  lay  still, 

Caressed  a  pimple  on  his  chin, 
And  slowly  counted  the  coins  he  had  pinched 
By  sly  manoeuverings  with  ledger  and  with  till. 
Made  play  with  rusty  razor,  essayed  cold  water, 

shivered  thereat  and  flinched. 
And   so   with   dragging   steps   set   forth   his 
daily  bread  to  win. 


[18] 


The  little  wrinkles  round  his  tired  eyes 

Creased  into  kindliness  and  mirth. 
Hillside  and  moor,  flood,  field  and  tropic  suns. 
The  silken  salon,  music,  laughter,  azure  s^ies, 
Tempest,  harsh  conflict,  belching  guns, 

Had  marred  and  made  this  man  for  such  as 
he  was  worth. 


Through  door  ajar  the  Haberdasher's  Assistant  spied 
A  bowed  and  broken  figure;  (Mary,  pity 

women!)  Youth  astray, 
Hunger  and  misery  enthroned  where  Love  should 

reign ! 
And  floundering  in  the  squalid  mire  of  his  life,  he 

lied, 
Denied  himself,  regretted,  cursed,  denied  himself 

again, 

Found    strength,    gave    comfort,    shewed    a 
better  way. 


A  veritable  Knight  he  seemed. 

"No  doubt  hed  lived  his  life." 
(Those  little  bowed  and  broken  figures  by  the  way!) 
The   road  stretched  fair  in  front.     They  talked  and 

dreamed. 

(Thus  is  the  balance.   Some  spend  and  others  pay.) 
Peace  after  battle.     After  Experience  a  wife. 


[19 


The  sun,  slow  westering,  lit  the  hills  across  the  bay, 

Made  glorious  the  glittering  tracery  of  the  trees, 
And  cast  a  halo  round  her  golden  hair. 
Aslant,  down  murky  streets  the  dying  day 
Groped  for  an  entry  up  a  narrow  stair, 

But,  fading,  failed  to  find  a  form  on  bended 
knees. 


Is  this  the  balance?    In  the  cosmic  veins 

A  red  corpuscle  found  a  tardy  birth. 
And  aeons  after  with  a  surge  as  of  rising  tide,  and 

of  pent  up  flood, 
The  vivifying  Force  which  rules  by  yielding,  and 

by  service  reigns, 

Multiplied  and  martialled  the  red  corpuscles, 
attacked  and  routed,  swept  and  cleansed  the  blood. 

And  thus  did  the  Haberdasher's  Assistant  play  a 
part  in  creating  a  new  Heaven  long  after 
his  rickety  and  calcareous  bones  had  re- 
turned to  the  good  Earth. 


[20 


'NOBLESSE  OBLIGE' 


'NOBLESSE  OBLIGE' 


V^^ 

C5. 


HE  sceptre  passes.   In  the  "good  old  days" 

When  Gurth  the  swineherd  waited  at  the  postern 
gate 

And  hugged  the  chains  which  bound  him, 

munched  the  proffered  crust, 
Nor  questioned  Fate, 
A  single  golden  phrase — 

"Noblesse  Oblige" — born  in  the  cut  and  thrust 
Of  those  fierce  conflicts  which  ennobled  and  enslaved 
Men  with  an  equal  birthright,  helped  to  compensate 
For  all  the  hideous  inequity  which  ruled — and  rules 

— the  world. 

"Di'eii  et  mon  droit"  the  buccaneering  Baron  raved, 
With  pennons  flying,  banner  of  silk  unfurled, 
And  robbed,  and  raped,  and  murdered  with  his 

chosen  partner — God. 

Some  fed  their  appetites.    Others  hewed  the  wood 
And  drew  the  water,  tilled  the  kindly  soil, 
Broken  in  spirit  kissed  the  chastising  rod, 
Nor  understood 

That  the  keen  blade  and  pointed  lance 
Were  edged  and  sharpened  by  their  honest  toil. 
The  gallant  bearing  and  the  gay  romance 
Of  those  who  reaped  what  these  poor  hinds  had  sown 
Obscured  the  issue,  and  the  circumstance 
Of  puling  infants,  cradled  in  mangers  or  in  palaces, 
Determined  who  should  perish  in  the  fetid  hovel, 

who  should  occupy  the  gilded  throne. 
Thus  human  fallacies 
Forged  chains  which  link  by  link 
Priests  tempered,   monarchs  strengthened,   lackeys 

and  peasants  embraced. 


[23 


But  one  thought  graced 

Those  darkened  ages.    One  lone  star  shone  clear 

And  helped  the  tossed  and  weather  beaten  craft  to 

steer 
— Though  blindly — to  a  haven  where  men  should 

rest  awhile. 

"Noblesse  Oblige!"    The  Golden  Rule  applied 
To  those  who  held  the  rank  and  wealth  men  almost 

deified. 

"Noblesse  Oblige!"    Surrender;  sacrifice; 
Excuse  for  ignorance; 
The  courteous  smile 

When  weakness  hurled  the  angry  insult;  tolerance 
Of  human  frailties;  pity  for  poverty.    In  this  device 
Emblazoned  on  the  banners  of  the  chosen  few 
A  world  distraught  with  hates  and  fears 
Found  hope,  held  faith,  gained  solace  for  bitter  tears, 
Courage  in  sorrow,  measure  of  comfort,  some 

small  ruth  for  rue. 


The  sceptre  passes.    Rank  lingers  on  the  stage 

Superfluous.    "Captains  and  Kings  depart." 

Science,  not  privilege,  marks  the  accepted  sage. 

The  brains  of  men,  their  industry,  their  art 

Fashion  the  crowns  worth  wearing.    Fearless  eyes 

Look  into  eyes  as  fearless.    Throughout  a  continent 

Stretching  three  thousand  miles  from  sea  to  sea 

No  man  so  daft 

As  to  deny  his  heritage 

Of  all  the  earth.  Not  one  who  deifies 

Those  ancient  fetishes  which  have  meant 


24 


So  much  to  men  who  had  not  known  the  joy  of 

being  free. 

The  crown  of  freedom  presses  on  the  brow 
Of  every  citizen  of  America, 
And  here  in  the  fair  state  of  California 
Where  even  now, 

When  half  the  world  is  hungered  and  athirst, 
The  horn  is  filled  with  plenty,  and  the  presses  burst 
With  all  the  lavish  products  of  a  golden  soil, 
That  crown  is  studded  with  a  thousand  costly  gems. 
Enthroned  and  sceptred  by  their  enterprise  and  toil 
Winged  are  their  feet  to  lead  men  forward. 
Myrrh  and  frankincense 

Are  proffered  by  proud  sovereigns  of  distant  realms, 
Piteous,  entreating  hands  would  touch  the  hems 
Of  garments  worn  by  those  whose  eyes  have  seen 

the  light 

Denied  to  them ;  of  men  who  can  dispense 
Their  favours  regally;  whose  hands  are  on  the  helms 
Of  all  the  little  barques  which  set  their  timid  sails 
To  catch  the  winds  of  Freedom;  of  men   who've 

fought  and  won — in  part — the  fight. 


But  what  of  all  that  Privilege  entails? 
"Noblesse  Oblige."    How  far  does  that  sweet  phrase 
Govern  men's  conduct  in  these  later  days 
Of  clash  and  clanguor  and  of  storm  and  stress? 
These  modern  monarchs  go  their  several  ways 
And  ask,  no  favours,  plead  for  no  largesse. 
They've  learned  to  take  what's  theirs,  to  hold 
their  own. 


25 


But  what  of  giving?  On  the  bare  Caucasian  slopes, 
Where  the  blue  Danube  rolls,  on  barren  Russian 

plains, 

On  Don,  on  Dneiper,  Vistula;  on  Rhine  and  Rhone, 
Amidst  the  tumbled  Balkans — everywhere  the  hopes 
Of  famished  men,  of  lonely  women,  helpless 

orphans,  rest  upon  the  generosity  of  those 

whose  gains 

Have  not  been  wasted  in  the  cruel  furnace  of  the  war. 
And  not  in  vain  the  quest! 
America  has  proved  herself  as  great  in  giving  as  in 

garnering  wealth. 
But  money  does  not  heal  the  scar 
Which  sears  the  soul  of  men.    What  of  the  kindly 

thought, 

The  knightly  courtesy,  humility  in  pride — 
Gifts  of  the  spirit  which  can  not  be  bought? 
There  is  no  health 

In  arrogance,  or  in  the  strength  which  boasts, 
And  would  deride 

The  claims  of  those  who  cannot  martial  hosts 
To  force  them.    "Noblesse  Oblige."    From  that 

old  world 

In  which  men  groped  towards  the  light, 
And,  groping,  bound  themselves  with  iron  chains 
Of  Privilege,  and  Prejudice,  and  Fantasies,  and 

Forms, 

Has  passed  the  sceptre.  No  longer,  scented,  curled, 
Pampered,  misled  by  intrigue,  flattered  by  parasite, 
Does  Royalty  dictate  the  issue.  Thews  and  brains 
Bred  in  the  crowded  cities,  nurtured  in  the  fertile 

plains 
Of  free  America  can  alone  decide 


[26 


Whether  that  civilization  shall  abide 

Which  trembles  in  the  balance.   It  is  your  pride 

That  'neath  the  stars  and  stripes,  no  crest,  no 

coat  of  arms,  no  old  device 
Of  mud-stained  chivalry 
Can  link  your  purpose  with  a  tortured  past. 
The  stripes  for  union,  and  the  stars  for  liberty! 
Let  that  suffice ! 

That  "he  alone  must  travel  who  would  travel  fast" 
Voices  that  other  thought  your  stripes  deny. 
The  stripes  for  union!   Would  you  then  confine 
That  sense  of  union?  Give  the  lie 
To  half  your  emblem?  Do  the  stars  reflect 
God's  light  upon  a  single  continent 
Of  this  small  globe,  which,  swinging  in  the  firma- 
ment, 

Carries  the  destiny  of  man. 
Do  you  reject 
The  wider  plan, 
Which  tells  you  that  the  call, 
Resounding  on  your  platforms,  echoed  in  your  press, 

applauded  even  in  your  Council  Hall, 
"First  comes  America,"  can  never  satisfy 
The  souls  of  those  who  wield  the  sceptre?  Is  it  not 

better  than  that  golden  phrase 
Which  helped  the  weaker,  made  more  strong  the 

stronger,  in  those  "good  old — bad  old — days" 
— "Noblesse  Oblige" — be  written  on  the  flag  which 

leads  the  van? 

So  shall  America  not  permit  to  die 
Her  own  ideal — The  Real  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


[27] 


CREEDS,  CONSTELLATIONS,  AND  CREEPING 
THINGS 

rHE  sense  of  Oneness!     If  that  only  were 

achieved, 

And  human  brains  conceived 
That  greater  thought  which  links 
Mankind,  the  sap  which  thrills  with  life 
The  larkspur,  poisonous  red  berry,  and  the  little 

peeping  frond, 
Born  with  a  tender  breath  of  spring  into  a  world 

of  strife, 

The  fleeting  moment  and  the  Great  Beyond, 
The  furtive  weasel  as  it  homeward  slinks 
Obscene  with  cruel  bloodstains  and  yet  sanctified 
In  that  she  lives,  as  she  had  gladly  died, 
To  feed  two  cheeping,  chattering  little  balls  of  fur, 
Pressing  with  soft,  pink,  clawless  pads  her  swollen 

teats, 

Which  constitute  the  Universe  to  her! 
Rapine,  surrender,  sacrifice,  low  greed,  and  lofty  feats 
Of  knightly  chivalry,  all  inextricably  bound  and  tied 
Into  the  very  fabric  of  the  lives 
Of  men  and  mice  and  metals,  hunter  and  hunted, 

prelates  and  butchers,  doves,  cormorants, 

cretaceans,  prostitutes,  and  wives! 
If  man  but  understood ! 
The  plains  of  France  bear  witness.      Seamed  and 

scarred 

The  barren  fields  are  sown  with  skulls  and  bones 
To  ripen  into  hate  twixt  humans  yet  unborn: 
The  erstwhile  fruitful  orchard  and  the  peaceful  wood 
All  charred: 


[28] 


Sweet   homesteads   ravished,    women    dishonoured, 

little  ones  forlorn. 

Is  there  no  gain  to  balance?    Nothing  which  atones? 
"A  greater  love  no  man  can  have  than  this." 
Through  the  long  ages  how  those  words  resound! 
Stirred  by  a  wave  of  generous,  patriotic  thought, 
(Come  death!     Come  sickness,  or  the  crippling 

wound !) 

They  held  themselves  as  naught, 
Embraced  the  steel,  welcomed  the  shattering  roar 

of  cannon,  and  the  bullet's  hiss, 
If  England  lived — If  France  escaped  her  doom — 
If  the  lost  provinces  of  Italy  could  be  redeemed — 
If  young  America  could  show  the  world 
That  the  free  banner  which  she  had  unfurled 
Could  not  be  stained  by  lust  of  conquest.    Ebb 

and  flow 
Mark  all  the  processes  of  Nature.     Dying  embers 

nurse  the  glow 
From  which  again  shall  leap  the  sacred  flame. 

It  has  even  seemed 

That  the  filth-crusted,  dust -encumbered  room 
Of  human  habitation 
Has  been  garnished,  cleansed  and  swept, 
Whilst  strong  men  writhed  in  agony  and  women  wept, 
For  the  greater  delectation 

Of  seven  times  seven  devils  who  have  entered  in. 
Revise  your  phrases!    Recognize  that  sin 
Is  clear  insanity: 

That  egotistic  faith  to  which  you  pin 
Your  hopes  of  gaining  something  which  you've 

missed 


29 


A  sheer  inanity ! 

"Sic  vos  non  vobis."     When  the  stern  crusader  kissed 

The  cross  which  made  a  handle  to  the  blade 

He  fain  would  crimson  with  the  blood  of  men 

Born  in  a  distant  land, 

He  failed  to  understand 

That  he  blasphemed  his  own  ideal. 

The  tide  creeps  higher,  despite  the  frequent  retro- 
cession, 

Now  as  then. 

For  not  less  real 

Has  been  the  blundering  ineptitude  which  has  led 

Teuton  and  Gaul,  Celt,  Slav,  and  many  a  mingled 
breed 

Welded  in  selfless  loyalty  to  a  mere  geographical 
expression 

To  suffer  jubilantly  without  heed 

To  personal  advantage.   Yet  the  red  blood  they  shed 

On  Moloch's  altar  is  accepted  as  a  sacrifice 

In  that  it  marks  a  dawning  sense 

Of  the  extension  of  the  sphere  of  influence 

Of  that  great  Concept  which  shall  one  day  kill 

The  creeds  which  help  to  float  the  swimmer  and 
then  with  strangling  hold 

Engulf  him  in  a  sea  of  self.    To  heal  the  essential  ill 

It  shall  not  suffice 

That  Mongol  and  Aryan  would  as  lief 

Hamper  or  hurt  each  other  as  a  thief 

Would  steal  the  wage  that  he  himself  has  earned. 

Far  more  bold 

Must  be  man's  grasp  of  that  Infinity, 

So  faint  discerned — 


[30] 


The  infinitely  small  and  infinitely  great, 

The  mite,  the  microbe,  men,  Martians,  and  the 

Milky  Way, 
Larva  of  dead  volcanoes,  laughing  children,  wondrous 

webs  of  spiders,  stinging  nettles,  fragrant 

flowers  in  May, 

Love-linked,  though  seemingly  distraught  with  hate, 
Inseparate,  Inviolate — 
The  One  in  All,  and  All  in  one,  which  is  Divinity! 


[31] 


A  MENAGE  A  TROIS  ACROSS  THE  STYX 


A  MENAGE  A  TROIS  ACROSS  THE  STYX 

"v*»-™ — XT'S  a  dashed  nuisance  that  we've  lost  our 

grips. 

That  weird   old  fellow  at  the  helm's   to 
„ — ^  "NV     blame. 
I'm  bio  wed 

If  I'll  bestow  upon  these  grinning  boatmen  any  tips. 
I  like  this  place.    We'll  breakfast  here.    The  air 

was  chill 
Crossing  that  river.    Strange  I  cannot  recollect 

the  name. 
I  wish  I'd  rowed 
To  keep  me  warm. 

Why  do  you  kiddies  sit  so  glum  and  still? 
What  does  it  matter  where  we've  landed?     It's 

the  same 
So  long  as  we're  together.  Sweetheart,  lend  your 

lips! 

Encircle  me  with  your  soft  arm! 
That's  better.  Feel  myself  again. 
And  now  to  breakfast.   I  vote  we  go  and  sit 
In  the  vine-trellised  arbour  yonder.     P'raps 

we'll  get  a  drink. 
It  doesn't  look  as  if  this  place 
Was  ruled  by  that  damned  prohibition.  Shine  or 

rain 

We've  stuck  together  since  Claire  made  a  hit 
With  me,  and  I  began  to  think 
In  terms  of  real  soul  freedom,  and  this  little 

Grace, 

Wife  of  my  springtime,  recognized  the  truth 
That  man  is  polygamic — kept  her  hand  in  mine — 


[35] 


Never  reproached  because  we  found  that  on  a 

certain  plane 

We  met  no  longer;  whether  it  was  Youth 
That  sprouted  fresh  within  me — or  the  brute. 
I'm  not  abusing  any  part  of  God's  creation. 
They  are  just  as  fine 
As  we  are — these  frank,  healthy,  sane, 
Erotic,  questing,  hunting,  fighting,  lusting  beasts. 
Well,  anyway,  Grace  understood  and  played  the 

game, 
And  here  we  are — the  three  of  us!    Doesn't 

she  look  cute 
In  that  frilled  nighty?   Give  me  your  lips,  Claire! 

It's  blamed  queer 
That  after  all  our  feasts 
Of  Love  and  Reason,  when  we  talked,  and  danced, 

and  sang, 

Touched  life  at  every  point, 
And  never  gave  a  hang 

For  damned  conventions,  we  should  be  sitting  here 
In  this  rum  joint, 

And  dressed  like  this,  as  if  we  three  had  had  a  call 
At  midnight  which  we  could  not  shirk  or  stay. 


"So  that's  it,  is  it?    You  two  knew  that  Life 

Held  us  no  longer — that  the  Moving  Picture  Play 

Is  over  for  the  three  of  us?   Well,  after  all 

It  had  to  come  some  day. 

Styx  or  Spoon  River!   Loose  me  for  a  moment, 

Claire. 

I  want  that  little  Grace, 
My  wife, 

[36] 


Back  in  my  arms.    Guess  we've  got  to  face 
This  thing  together.    You,  too,  Claire!    I 

didn't  mean 

To  hurt  you,  sweetheart.    You  and  I 
Have  got  to  try 

To  straighten  this  thing  out — be  fair  and  square 
To  this  dear  child  on  whose  calm  strength 

we've  learned  to  lean. 
How  did  we  die? 

****** 

"I  remember  now,  Claire.   You  had  sung 
And  thrilled  me  with  the  passion  of  your 

splendid  voice. 
It  seemed  that  liquid  fire  coursed  my  veins.    I 

had  no  choice. 
A  star,  low  hung, 
Lit  that  sweet  path  which  led 
To  rapture.    Grace  had  slipped  away, 
To  sleep  or  pray. 
You  had  shed 
Upon  me  all  the  generous,  poignant  beauty  of 

your  love, 

Showered  upon  me  all  the  glorious  wealth 
Of  that  wild,  wayward  heart,  which  made  your  eyes 
Rubies  for  me,  your  breasts  great  chalices  of  wine, 
Gave  to  your  voice  the  soft  caressing  murmur  of 

of  the  mating  dove, 
And  made  your  hair  a  mesh  which  held  me  by  a 

thousand  strands  of  gold. 
And  then  with  stealth 
Came  footsteps  to  surprise, 
Came  Greed  and  Violence  to  snatch  poor  gauds 

of  mine. 

[37] 


And  when  I  started  to  resist  I  felt  the  clinging 

hold 

Of  your  soft  arms.   One  shot  in  panic  killed  us  both. 
Terror  had  made  that  poor,  stealing  coward  bold. 
And  Grace  here — she  could  not  have  been  far 

off,  Claire- 
Nothing  loth 

(Not  far  off!     By  God!     That  makes  one  think. 

Oh,  yes!    She'd  acquiesced.     But  was  it  fair?) 

Took  that  to  drink 

Which  brought  her  little  body  to  the  brink 

Of  the  dark  river  which  we've  crossed. 

So  it's  all  over!    All  is  won  or  lost. 

We  three  have  got  to  face  the  music — count 

the  cost ! 
The  harvest  ripens.     Well,  t'was  I  that  sowed 

the  seed ! 
Hi!  Waiter!  Where's  that  queer  old  Ganymede?" 


"Gen'man  with  two  ladies,  Sir!    Wants  to  pay  the 

bill. 

Seems  that  'e's  'ad  'is  fill 

And  doesn't  know  the  rules  of  this  establishment. 
'Can't  pay  for  wot  I've  'ad?'  'e  says. 
'  'Oo  runs  this  show?    Is  this  a  bloomin'  maze? 
I've  'card,'  'e  says,  'of  'umans  being'  sent 
Along  the  broad  and  easy  path  plumb  down  to  Hell, 
Or  up  the  straight  and  narrer — jus'  two  ways. 
But  this  would  craze 
A  bleedin'  Archimandrite  to  be  told' 
(You'll  pardon  me,  Sir,  if  I'm  overbold. 
I'm  usin'  jus'  the  langwidge  w'ich  'e  used) 


38 


'That  wot  a  fella's  bought  'as  not  bin  sold, 

And  that  the  one  'oo  pays 

Is  not  the  chap  wot's  fed  the  biggest  appetite. 

I'd  rather  be  excused 

From  entering  any  of  the  many  mansions  in  this 

'ouse' 

(His  actual  words,  Sir,  were  that  'e'd  be  damned) 
'If  I  can't  settle  this  account. 
I'll  do  wot's  right. 

I've  never  subterfuged,  or  lied,  or  shammed, 
And  I'll  pay  up,  wotever  the  amount.' 
In  fact  'e  claimed  to  be  the  one  and  only  mouse 
As  ate  the  cheese. 
Judg'n,    'owever,   that  Yer  Honor's  ruling  in  this 

case 

Seems  to  be  likely  to  affect  the  'uman  race 
Considerable,  since  they've  chucked  the  good  old 

wheeze 

'Bout  marriage  bein'  made  in  'Eaven, 
I've  brought  the  crowd  along. 
I  guess  the  little  'un  supplies  the  leaven 
To  sweeten  the  'ole  lump, 
Altho'  she  aint  carollin'  no  sweet  song. 
There's  suthin'  about  'er  seems  to  brighten 

this  old  dump. 
Well!     That's  your  job,  Sir.     'Scuse  me  now! 

So  long!"  ' 


"I  see  you  misconstrue  the  purpose  of  this  Court. 
I'll  not  enter  now 

Into  those  super-subtleties  to  which  your  minds 
are  not  attuned. 

[39] 


This  is  no  anteroom  to  a  kind  of  psychic  health 

resort, 

Such  as  your  quacks  who  flourish  down  below 
Construct  to  fit  their  predilections.  You  have 

mooned 

About  your  souls,  and  sought  to  justify 
A  living  lie 
By  reference  to  Truths  you've  really  failed  to 

grasp, 

Altho'  you've  glimpsed  them.    Now  you  three 
Before  me,  in  brief  respite,  stand  at  the  last  gasp 
Of  those  detached,  encircling,  envelopes  of  flesh 
(Drops,  rivulets,  then  rivers,  then  the  open  sea!) 
Which  for  a  space  have  circumscribed 
Those  fragments  of  the  essential,  Universal  stuff 
Short  loaned  to  you.    Each  held  within,  and  peering 

through,  a  mesh 

Has  given  to  each,  and  has  from  each  imbibed, 
And  yet  in  futile,  human  arrogance  has  maintained 
The  personal,  egoistic  standpoint.    You  believe 
That  it  is  not  enough 
That  the  whole  Universe  of  circling  orbs 
Should  swing  in  ordered,  rhythmic  unison;  that  each 

scrap 

Of  interlocking,  interchanging,  interacting  dust, 
Each  particle  a  Cosmos  which  has  waxed  and  waned, 
{Grass,  fibre,  shuttle,  war  ft  and  woof,  and,  lo! 

the  Final  Weave!) 

Should  form  a  part  of  that  Infinity  of  Mind 
Which  grasps,  reflects,  ordains,  reacts,  absorbs 
All  processes — is  Life,  is  Love,  is  Hope, 

the  very  Sap 
And  Substance — Hunger,  Thirst,  Soft  Pity,  Rabid 

Lust 

[40] 


Sex,  Music,  Dissolution,  Reconstruction,  Sun  and 

Wind, 

Heat,  Vapour,  Waves,  Vibrations,  Impulse,  Act, 
Art,  Mechanism,  Ether,  Poetry,  Concept,  Fact, 
Ape,  Vegetable,  Man,  Sloth,  Flea,  and  Cataract. 
All  this  is  not  enough,  but  you  must  hold 
Since  we've  endowed  a  certain  fragment  of  our  whole 
With  cerebration — matter  in  motion  whirled  around 
So  that  the  things  you  call  volition,  thought, 
Follow  on  certain  groupings — your  mentalities 

enfold 

A  separate  entity;  that  the  human  Soul 
Amounts  to  something  which,  as  though  in  honour 

bound, 

We  must  perpetuate.   It  matters  naught 
That  all  the  rotting  refuse  of  the  endless  forms 
In  which  you  see  life  spring  and  life  decay 
Gainsay 

Your  theories.    You  cling 
To  that  which  is  in  truth  a  very  little  thing. 
The  lesson  of  the  bees,  of  gin,  depression, 

exaltation,  calms  and  storms, 
Of  ions,  coral,  crawfish,  Mamelukes  and  Kings, 
Seed,  sceptres,  sickness,  health,  volcanoes, 

wedding  rings. 
Laws,  revolutions,  motherhood,  receding  tides, 

dead  stars, 
Unions  of  labour,  churches,  comradeship,  fierce 

wars — 

All  these  escape  you,  since  you  magnify 
That  little  spark  which  animates 
The  brief  association  of  dead  leaf,  dead  fly, 
Mist  of  the  mountain,  and  the  ocean  slime, 


[41] 


(Which,  conscious  of  itself, 

Desires  and  copulates,  breeds,  barters,  boasts,  and 

hates) 
Into  a  rounded  whole.     But  neither  Space 

nor  Time 

Limit  the  vision  of  that  conscious  Universe 
In  which  you  claim 

That  each  fortuitous  concatenation  of  our  element, 
Which  is  to  Nature  as  the  sound  of  insects' 

hum  or  as  the  scent 

Of  flowers,  shall  rest  forever  on  its  little  shelf 
(Marcus  Aurelius,  Robert  Browning,  Caliban, 

Wong  Sin,   Yourself) 
Beatified,  or  blighted  by  some  cruel,  vengeful, 

undiscerning  curse. 
You  miss  our  aim. 
Soft  dalliance  with  houris,  blissful  adoration, 

human  intercourse 

With  the  few  atoms  you've  contacted  with  before, 
Thrills  without  satiety, 
A  chain  of  transmigration  with  each  link, 
Detached  in  individual  knowledge  from  the  one 

behind — 
A  weird  variety 

Of  futile  aspirations  centred  round  the  core 
Of  finite  consciousness  which  you  choose  to  think 
To  be  the  very  Source 

Of  Something  sempiternal.  You  must  clear  the  mind 
Of  all  such  aberrations.  Hate,  Love,  Fear,  Remorse 
Abide.  No  sparrow  falls  and  leaves  the  Universe 

unchanged. 

Your  acts  have  helped  or  hurt 
To  all  time. 


[42] 


I  have  ranged 

Beyond  your  comprehension.   Hold  to  this. 

Clean  dirt, 

(The  sweat  of  agonized,  effete  endeavour 

Or  fierce,  forbidden,  lusting,  generous,  sympathetic 

k^s), 

Noisome  slime, 

(Deliberate  and  hypocritical  denial  of  the  truth) 
May  clog  and  jam  our  mechanism,  both  alike. 
The  one  is  swept  away, 
Dust  dancing  in  the  sun's  clear  ray. 
The  other,  in  that  it  retards  th'  appointed  end, 
Endures  forever, 

Confounds  confusion,  wrecks  a  myriad  lives, 
Is  cancerous  in  the  heart  of  that  which  men  call  God. 
There  is  no  ruth 

For  meanness,  self  deception,  Pharisaic  lies. 
The  man  who  strives 

And  fails,  has  helped  to  clear  the  issue.    Made 
The  anti-toxin.     The  green  sod 
Which  lightly  rests  where  he  was  laid 
Can  deal  with  all  that  emanates.    The  little  cries 
Of  peewits  marks  the  passing  of  that  soul, 
Merged  in  the  Infinite ;  en  wrapt ;  oblivious ;  fragment 

of  the  Conscious  Whole. 


"I  see  friend  Richard  yawns  portentously.    Perhaps 

he  thinks 

That  all  the  troubles  which  afflict  the  tortured  world 
— It  always  has  been  tortured;  ever  on  the  brinks 
Of  endless  crises — these  are  due 


[43] 


To  the  loquacity  he  has  observed  in  Me, 
Indicative  of  that  dread  thing,  senile  decay. 
Instead  of  those  harsh  thunderbolts  we  hurled 
To  drive  our  blithering  sheep  back  into  the  fold, 
A  stream  of  endless  talk!    Dick,  I  think  that  you 
Are  justified.  I  said  I  would  not  deal  in  super- 
subtleties. 

But  I  see 

I've  got  you  all  balled  up  when  I  have  only  told 
The  half  of  half  of  the  tenth  part  of  all  that  I 

might  say. 

So  to  get  back  to  earth!    It  has  dawned  on  you 
That  if  my  teaching  holds,  it  matters  naught 
To  that  dead  self  of  yours  if  you  have  wrought 
Evil  or  good.    Rewards,  damnation,  rapture,  rue, 
All  meaningless!    A  truce  to  metaphysics!    I  will 

merely  hint 

At  that  which  some  day  will  be  understood 
Even  by  humans.   What  if  you  are  sick? 
You  long  for  health.     Thought  conquers.     You 

are  well. 

Mind  is  the  mint. 
Your  little  cosmos — revolving  atoms;  Sleep  and 

Awaking ; 

Procreation;  Brain  Work;  Food; 
Co-operation;  Energy;  Despair;  Hope;  Habit; 

Flame  and  Wick — 
Restores  proportions,  reckons  values,  skirts  the 

brink  of  Hell, 
Emerges  sane,   and  dances  gladly  down  the  path 

of  Time. 

But  when  mind  fails?   Does  not  this  mean 
That  all  the  myriad  component  parts  lack  unison, 

have  not  the  sense  of  rhyme, 

[44] 


Fail  to  react,  to  comprehend  direction,  are  self- 
willed? 

Now  grant  this  comprehension !  Does  the  new-born 
child 

Yearn  to  destroy  the  gentle  breasts  which  wean? 

Does  the  lute  strive  to  make  a  rasping  discord? 
Yet  it  happens  so, 

For  lack  of  comprehension — which  is  Conscience. 
Dick! 

Those  fabled  tortures,  burnings,  keeping  dead 
things  quick 

That  they  may  suffer  anguish,  are  as  melting  snow 

To  lips  all  cracked  and  parched,   compared  with 
that  distress 

Which  shatters,  rends,  and  tears  each  fibre  of  the 
Inner  Consciousness 

Of  those  who  know, 

WhoVe  hurt,  who've  hindered,  made  insane,  un- 
clean, 

The  very  thing  they  are — the  All-Pervading, 
All-Embracing,  Great  Unseen. 


"It  comes  to  this, 
The  lightest  kiss, 

The  flicker  of  a  half -born  thought, 
Repression,  Inclination — all  these  count. 
Each  a  microscopic  fount 

Flowing  eternal.  Crushed  insects  fertilize  a  tiny  seed ; 
The  desert  blossoms.    From  that  little  weed 
Follow  the  chain  of  consequence !  A  flower  plucked ; 
A  darting  rattlesnake;  Human  ambitions  shattered, 
brought  to  naught; 

[45] 


Hearts   broken;    children    wailing — a    whole   world 
awry. 


"And  now,  my  friends,  I've  chucked 

This  highfalutin'  talk.    I'll  have  a  try 

To  size  the  situation  up  with  which  we've  got  to  deal. 

In  language  suited  to  those  mortal  brains 

Which  shortly  must  be  used  again  for  making  grass 

or  glow  worms. 

We've  got  to  balance  losses,  count  the  gains, 
Now  that  you  three  are  dead. 
In  spite  of  all  I've  said 
We  go  through  all  the  forms 
Of  judgment.    What  is  your  appeal? 
I'll  do  the  pleading.   There  is  nothing  sacrosanct 
About  an  institution  planned  by  men  and  ratified 

by  priests, 

Who  incidentally  may  be  thanked 
For  half  the  troubles  Flesh  is  heir  to.    Marriage 

feasts 

Occasion  frequent  indigestion.    We  continually  shift 
Our  standards.   Many  a  dead  Turk, 
By  honest  work, 

Has  helped  to  give  your  little  world  a  lift, 
Whose  amorous  proclivities  might  have  justified 
— If  we  did  things  that  way — 
A  course  in  higher  mathematics  for  that  cheerful 

myth 
The  Recording  Angel.    Your  point  is  Richard, 

that  you  haven't  lied 

To  your  most  intimate  associate  in  the  game  of  life, 
Your  wife. 


46] 


All  those  intensely  complex  forces  which  must  play 
Upon  the  question — heredity,  environment, 

attributes 

Of  mind  and  body — you  had  better  leave  to  me. 
I'll  extract  the  pith. 
Men  are  brutes. 
Mists  of  the  mountain  top  are  part  and  parcel 

of  the  sea. 

The  sum  and  substance  of  it  all  is  this. 
— Clasp;  handshake;  soft  caress;  sweet,  clinging, 

biting  kiss — 

Who  has  been  taking,  who  been  giving,  most? 
Just  when  you  are,  just  where  you  are,  just  who 

you  are, 

You've  got  to  play  the  game,  in  peace  or  war, 
To  help  and  not  to  hinder.   The  kindly  crutch  today 
Will  atrophy  sound  limbs  unless  it's  thrown  away 
When  all  the  host 

Of  tiny  filaments  of  nerve  and  tissue  tingle  at  the  call 
Of  health  restored. 

Just  who  you  are,  just  where  you  are,  just  when, 
The  world  of  men 

Must  gain  or  lose  by  you.    The  supremest  test 
Is  giving  and  taking.    One  loved,  and  one  abhorred 
By  the  Great  Purpose.    That's  the  all  in  all! 
Let  go  the  rest! 

****** 

"One  of  you  is  rotten.   That  means  a  doom 
I've  only  vaguely  adumbrated.    Grace's 

pleading  eyes 

Tell  the  old  tale.    Vicarious  sacrifice 
Means  nothing  really.   We  have  no  room 
For  purely  human  sentiment.    And  yet 


[47 


You'll  miss  the  balance,  finer  than  the  thread 

Of  finest  gossamer  split  in  a  billion  strands, 

If  you  fail  to  get 

The  inner  meaning  of  the  thing  called  Love. 

We  put  that  above 

Aught  else — The  love  which  understands, 

Surrenders,  suffers,  and  endures  when  passion's 

cold  and  dead. 

And  if  this  wins  no  solace,  no  respite 
For  the  one  loved,  what  use  has  been  the  fight? 
Your  question,  Grace!    It  all  depends,  my  child, 
On  the  reaction  of  the  man  you've  loved — 

the  thing  you've  made. 
Depend  upon  it  you've  created  something  which 

will  aid. 
— A  spark!      A  seedling! — Pass,  my  daughter, 

unafraid. 

****** 

* 'Claire,  you  are  trembling.     Rash,  wayward,  wild, 
You've  grasped  as  well  as  given, 
Perchance,  not  striven 
Too  hard  to  conquer  appetite. 
Dust  dancing  in  the  sunbeam,  Claire! 
You  recollect  my  simile.     Well,  well!    Our  air 
Cannot  be  all  pure  ether.    You're  all  right! 
****** 

"Oh,  Yes!    We  know  the  women  ministered  for 

their  own  delight, 
Each  in  her  separate  way. 
There's  much  to  say 
On  your  side,  Richard.   It's  a  fearful  coil 
This  old  sex  problem.    Brain  and  brain; 
Body  and  body;  that  flashing  keen  insight 

[48] 


Into  a  world  of  art  and  beauty  which  is  all  the  soul 
You  humans  are  endowed  with.    Wit,  laughter, 

share  of  toil — 
How  these  unite ! 
Give  sense  of  rounded  whole ! 
Pulses  beat  higher,  comradeship  ensues, 
A  splendid  gain, 

But  clean  outside  that  marriage  contract.    I  will  use 
A  simple  illustration — then  have  done. 
If  something  has  been  lost  it  often  happens 

something  has  been  won. 

****** 

"Here  is  a  type.    Rigid,  affectionate,  honest,  clean, 

upright, 

He  passes  to  the  home  where  that  embrace 
Which  Law  has  sanctified, 

Shall  still  the  throb  of  Nature  on  this  day  of  spring. 
A  familiar  face, 
Lips  which  have  never  lied, 
Quiescent,  acquiescent,  dutiful — the  wife. 
And  then  the  sting — 
We'll  skip  the  details;  how  it  came  about; 
The  chance  acquaintance ;  skirt  uplifted,  eyes  that 

brimmed, 
Then  flushed  with  the  soft  dew  of  passion — 

Aye  the  sting, 
The  bruise — dear  bruise — the  hurt — sweet  hurt — 

the  bite 

Of  vivid,  vital,  pulsing,  energizing  Life, 
By  poets  hymned. 

There's  something  lost.    Inevitable  deceit, 
A  hidden  background.    (That  has  been  left  out 
In  your  case,  Richard.)     If  in  that  retreat 


49] 


From  rectitude  and  boredom  there  has  sprung 
Real  tenderness,  real  pity,  longing  for  solace, 

that  heartache 
Which  makes  men  generous,  something  has  been 

gained. 

Forces  which  mar  are  forces  which  can  make. 
Fire  can  cleanse  that  which  the  smoke  of  fire  has 

stained. 

All  must  be  reckoned.    When  the  urge  was  spent, 
The  soft  arms  flung 

Beneath  those  flowing  tresses,  wrapt  in  sleep 
She  lay.    The  glimmer  of  a  tear 
Upon  her  cheek.    Men  prey  and  women  weep! 
Into  her  shell  like  ear 
He  murmured  'Oh!  My  dear!  My  dear! 
The  pity  of  it !'    We  count  that. 


"Have  we  arrived  now,  Richard?    Do  you  sense 
The  final  judgment? — What  I  am  driving  at? 
We  leave  it  in  the  very  last  event 
— You'll  suffer,  Richard! — to  your  Conscience." 


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